In all my chequered romantic past, I don't think I've ever had a break-up as acrimonious as the one I've recently had with Emmanuel Adebayor. I mean I usually try to keep on some sort of speaking terms with exes – at least for the sake of mutual friends and colleagues. But this one? Wow, none of the craziest of crazy bitches in my past has ever stamped on a friend's face in order to get their point across.

I mean, there was K who took all my belongings and threw them out of the window, even though I was screaming: "Why are you throwing them out the window? This is my flat!"

There was MJ, who in an effort to show me exactly who the winner was when I dumped her, hit on a guy in the student bar in front of me and then threw up on him.

And there was P, who in the middle of a particularly vicious set-to picked it up a notch by reaching for the nearest lamp and throwing it at my head. Luckily for me it was still plugged in, so it twanged to a halt six inches from my face.

Ah, happy memories.

By the way, if you're trying to decipher who P, K and MJ are to see if you've missed some extra layer of comedy, please don't waste any more of your valuable time. In order to retain some privacy I have both changed the names and completely invented most of the actions of the women mentioned.

The point is, I've never had a relationship go so bad, so fast, as it has with Emmanuel Adebayor. When P left did she run 100 yards to show me her new boyfriend? Did she slide across the turf in front of me with her legs apart in celebration? No, she did not. And the sad fact is, I treated her a lot worse than I treated Emmanuel Adebayor. At least with P I was the one always looking around for a better deal. But listen to me with the quick word again. The question I should ask is: how did it get so hate-filled so quickly?

It was only six months ago that I was sitting up on my holidays watching the African Footballer of the Year ceremony, live from Lagos, to see if our boy would win. There was no real tension; he was the only nominee in the room, was dressed in full Togolese national garb and had his mother in attendance. Hear that Manu? I watched you collect an award with your mother. Think of that next time you stamp on Cesc.

I make the point that this was only six months ago to dispel this idea, beloved of Mark Hughes, that Adebayor was the victim of a vicious year and a half of booing. This is nonsense. He got booed at the start of last season, mainly at the pre-season Emirates Cup. His big problem was that he never won back the cheering of the year before. The Emirates used to reverberate to the Adebayor songs. We heard them often and we sang them loud. And then … but this is old ground, let's not rake it all up again.

No, we loved that crazy guy with his big grin and lolloping style. And now we loathe each other. He bitches about Arsenal followers in the papers; the travelling fans scream abuse at him. It's all quite sad.

We hate each other so much that when he did his stupid goal celebration thing Arsenal fans were so incensed Craig Bellamy was photographed trying to calm things down. When Craig Bellamy is the voice of reason, well, that's a sign of the apocalypse.

So enough with the hate, Emmanuel Adebayor. I honestly felt queasy and cuckolded all weekend after your performance on Saturday. I was surprised by just how unpleasant I found the whole thing.

So, I'm moving on. It's time for someone to be the bigger man. It's time for someone to draw a line under this sorry saga before it turns into Brad and Angelina, or worse, Jordan and Peter Andre.

It might be too late for us to be friends now, but at the very least I can wish you well. Good luck with the rest of the season Emmanuel, with Man City and with Togo. But mainly, best of luck recovering from whatever mystery muscle strain, toe sprain, or split ends, keeps you out of the return match.